Three

A Taxing Affair – chapter 3

Voldemort Plus Ten: 2008

The time: Wednesday evening to Friday evening

The day went exactly as Hermione had predicted, and Arthur was just making his getaway through the Floo as she returned to his office with a pile of paperwork and a migraine from the budget meeting. Well, at least she was saved the bother of trying to make him pay attention while she went through the reams of financial stuff that she herself hated with a passion. After several hours of mediating between the bickering and whinging Department Heads and their minions, she had finally lost her temper, put her foot down and baldly given each of them a percentage, telling them all to shut up and be happy that they had got anything at all. She was sorely tempted to consign every last one of them, and their paperwork, to the everlasting fires of whichever Underworld applied. And there would be consequences, she knew, when they all came sneaking up to Arthur to extract promises of more money when her back was turned.

Still, it could wait until another day. She had a backlog of other business to deal with. And before that, she needed a Headache Potion, a quick wash, and about a pint of tea.

She descended three levels to the Auror section, letting herself into the duelling halls, where there were showers. It was past seven, so there were few people about to see her nip into one of the halls to let off steam with a wide selection of especially nasty hexes. She stopped short of any Unforgiveables, but the practice mannequin was in tatters by the time she had finished. A final "Reducto" ensured that the Auror trainees would have dust enough to make every one of them sneeze for the next week.

She showered, did her best to make her hair presentable, shook some of the wrinkles from her clothes, and returned to the office to wait... Strike that. To work. That was it. To work. Not to settle into one of the big armchairs by the fire with a lapful of folders which presented absolutely no distraction whatsoever from the vigil she kept.

Hermione wasn't used to feeling like this. Men had been an occasional pastime over the past ten years, but none of them had ever managed to turn her attention away from what was actually important. She even caught herself wishing she kept some make-up in her desk. She was sure to be looking hag-ridden... Damn! She was behaving like a... like a girl! Just because the man she'd fancied in secret since the day she started this job and he walked into her office and left her gaping like an imbecile had finally, finally spoken to her like a human being. Ridiculous behaviour. And why in Circe's name wasn't he here yet?

As if on cue, Snape burst through the Floo. But instead of responding to her greeting, he made a beeline for Arthur's best scotch and downed a good two fingers before he even looked at her.

"You'd better pour me one of those, too," said Hermione, swallowing her disappointment. "It looks as though I'm going to need it."

She was deprived of the electric moment when their fingers brushed as he handed her the glass by the simple fact that they didn't. And where can a girl find a romantic cliché these days when she needs one? thought Hermione. She settled for watching his grim expression relax almost imperceptibly as he sank into the other armchair and held his glass to his forehead above closed eyes.

"So?" she prompted. "Are you going to tell me, or am I going to get sloshed just for the hell of it?"

*

It would be fair to say that Hermione was horrified by Snape's news.

"But... but he can't do that!" she protested. "That goes against the Accords! He can't!" she repeated.

"I think you'll find that he probably can," Severus sighed into his whisky. Sharing the bad news had drained much of the tension that he had been forced to bottle up all day while pretending to be a useful little Muggle round Downing Street. "Miss Granger, it doesn't surprise me to learn that you know of the Accords, but I expect you are one of very few who do, these days. It was an oral agreement, an arrangement between gentlemen, sealed with a handshake, and the only magic involved was that of trust."

"Which has now been breached –"

"I wouldn't go that far," he replied, watching her indignant expression. "The PM probably knows nothing about it – such information can get lost with time. And even if he did know, he's desperate enough to ignore a centuries-old bargain. His party, his position and his legacy are on the line."

"But why didn't you...? No, forget it – you can't blow your cover. What are we going to do?"

"You're going to have to prime Arthur for the meeting on Friday..."

"What?! What meeting on Friday?" Hermione thrust herself out of her chair and rubbed at her temples. "Damn Arthur! Damn him – he just buggered off home without even telling me! Matthew! Matthew Jobberknoll!" she shouted at a small and currently empty frame on the wall near the Minister's desk.

The frog-like man sidled into view.

"What's been going on?" demanded Hermione.

"Oh, don't you start," he complained. "I've had Snape glaring at me all day – oh, there you are again, what a joy you are to behold, you with your impeccable taste in art –"

Severus scowled.

"– and that not-nearly-stupid-enough Muggle giving me the third degree..."

"Just tell me, Matthew. Please."

Matthew looked lugubriously at Hermione's glass.

"I remember whisky," he said. "Nobody thought to paint me any. Oh, all right! It was after lunch. The Muggle had me badger the Minister into a meeting, but he didn't say what it was about..."

"No, he really isn't stupid, is he?" Hermione interrupted, looking at Severus.

"Whereas Arthur is quite capable of being imbecilic enough for the two of them," he replied.

"Thank you, Matthew," said Hermione to the portrait. "Look – if I can get you access to the picture of Bacchus and his drunken nymphs in the canteen, would you promise to keep me informed in future?"

"It's against protocol!" protested Matthew without any conviction at all.

"Protocol be damned. You were painted in, what? 1698? I think three centuries of faithful service deserves a little reward, don't you?"

"Then protocol be damned, indeed, Miss Granger. I am your most..." He paused for a quick glance behind her and a secretive smirk that made him more frog-like than ever. "...almost your most faithful servant!" And with that he disappeared.

"What did he mean?" Hermione demanded of Severus, who turned away and resumed his chair at the fireside.

"No idea. Now listen, you need to prime Arthur for the meeting, and you need to have anything you can find about the Accords at your fingertips so you can prompt him – you need to make sure he brings you along so he doesn't get bamboozled."

Hermione thought of her already enormous pile of work. She consulted the Minister's diary.

"I'll need to search the archives for any documentary evidence of the Accords – I'll just have to cancel as many meetings as I can and work late. Later. Is there any chance you can help me? It's an awful lot of old parchment to sift through."

"Enticing as the idea of coughing and sneezing my way through three centuries of records may be, Miss Granger...," replied Severus, but, noticing her look of reproach and the resigned slump to her shoulders, he backtracked. "...I think we might postpone it to tomorrow evening. For now, though, we must plan our line of attack so you can get going on Weasley."

"Oh, Merlin – it's going to be horrible. He always improvises. He's not going to be able to this time, is he?"

Severus raised his glass to her.

"To perseverance."

She acknowledged the toast and took a mouthful of her own drink. The alcohol bounced off her stomach and went straight to her head.

"Not on an empty stomach!" she gasped. "Look..." She hesitated. "Um..."

He raised the eyebrow.

She fiddled with her glass but then firmed her jaw and rushed on.

"I owe you a meal. Why don't we grab a take-away and go back to my place? I've got a nice bottle of wine and there's no danger of being overheard..." Her courage petered out under his expressionless stare.

Oh, no! More awkward silences and now he thinks I'm a complete tart and he'll never speak to me again and...

"Indian or Chinese?" he said.

She wasn't to know, as they left the Minister's office, that the Inner Severus was behaving like the man who won the Cup Final with a goal in the last minute of extra time.

*

At seven o'clock on Friday evening, the Minister for Magic stepped through the Floo connection to the Prime Minister's office in Downing Street. He was closely followed by a young woman in smart navy blue robes. She was carrying a briefcase and had a determined expression that spelled trouble. Snape was concealing his surprise very well, thought the PM.

The two Ministers shook hands.

"And this is my right hand, Hermione Granger," said Arthur in an avuncular fashion that brought a brief look of irritation to her face.

"Ms Granger." The PM extended one of his great paws and engulfed her outstretched hand. Her grip was firm and she didn't look one whit impressed by him. Trouble indeed.

He presented Snape as his aide and then everybody sat down.

Weasley was clearly fascinated by everything in the office, and his secretary had to literally prod him to pay attention when the PM cleared his throat. She herself was obviously not going to miss a word or a nuance. She was ready and waiting with a notepad and a quill – an actual, honest-to-goodness quill pen – before her on the table and a slim sheaf of papers next to them.

"Now, Minister, I expect you know why I requested this meeting."

"Well, actually," Weasley joshed, "I think I might have an inkling!"

"It's a slightly delicate matter, but I think that perhaps the easiest thing would be to approach it without any beating about the bush."

"Absolutely!" Weasley encouraged him.

"Well, to put it bluntly, Minister, your people don't pay tax. They are citizens of this country but not contributors. I am going to have to change that." He leaned forward on his arms, wearing a serious-bulldog look.

Ms Granger opened her folder.

"Now, Prime Minister, I don't know if you are aware of it or not, but the wizarding community has a negligible impact on the Muggle economy," said Weasley. He took the piece of parchment that Ms Granger passed to him. "You will see that we have our own health care provision, schools, prisons, power, communications, transport..." He passed the parchment across the table.

"Your people enjoy the benefits of citizenship, of diplomatic protection, when abroad."

"Actually, we deal with that, too."

"Your houses and communities occupy land on which no charges have ever been levied."

The PM noted that Ms Granger frowned at that; she was quick – she'd spotted that he was intending to backdate the taxes.

"But then there is the strength of precedent against you, Prime Minister," said Weasley seriously.

"And yet precedent can, has been, and in this case must be broken. The country needs funds."

"Minister, if I may?" asked Ms Granger.

"Go ahead, Hermione."

Clearly she was more than just a secretary.

"Prime Minister, you may or may not be aware that the reason why most Muggles do not suspect the existence of our world is the passing of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy in 1692, which ensured the separation of our two communities for the safety and peace of mind of both."

The PM nodded, encouraging her to proceed.

"Conjunct to the Statute, there was a local agreement between the then Mugwump and the British crown, ensuring free tenure in perpetuity of all lands pertaining to the wizarding community – in return for services rendered protecting the general public from the more dangerous manifestations of the magical world, such as dragons, giants, invidious smaller fauna, aggressive flora, Dark magic, and so on. This agreement was known as the Maiden Castle Accords. It was witnessed by representatives of all the sentient and peaceful magical species, as well as by the King's most trusted ministers. We do pay tax, sir – we pay in kind."

Although the PM was having some trouble swallowing a few of the concepts the young woman was throwing around so casually, such as "aggressive flora", he wasn't about to be distracted from his goal.

"I'm afraid I have never heard of these 'Accords'," he said too genially.

"It was an oral agreement," said Ms Granger a touch defiantly, as if she knew what he would make of that.

It was true that a part of him squirmed at overturning dearly-held traditions, but money was money, and you didn't get to be PM by being squeamish. His "Ah" in response was the very embodiment of satisfaction.

"But," she continued, "you will be perfectly well aware that some of the most cherished cornerstones of British common law, such as the right to trial by jury, were not in fact enshrined in statute. Nevertheless, to satisfy you that we are telling the truth, I have found a certain amount of archive material which refers specifically to the Accords and their nature..."

"Thank you, Ms Granger," said the PM, holding out his hand for her documentation. "I believe the Minister and I can take it from here."

He couldn't fail to see the slightly panicky look she gave her boss.

"Mr Snape, perhaps you would be so kind as to give Ms Granger the tour of Number 10. Now, Mr Weasley..."

"Minister!" the Granger woman insisted, but to no avail.

"I'll see you back in my office in a little while, Hermione," said the Minister for Magic.

*

On the wrong side of the PM's office door, Hermione clenched her hands into fists.

"That's it, then."

"Indeed it would seem to be," replied Snape grimly.

"I don't suppose we could have expected anything else, really."

"You did make sure he had all the arguments at his fingertips?"

"Oh, give me some credit! The amount of talking I've done over the past two days, he must have thought Molly was the epitome of silence when he got home! But Arthur's a 'big picture' man – you know that."

"Whereas the PM is a 'details' man and will produce such a swarm of them that Arthur will be backed into a corner and find himself somehow agreeing."

"I just hope he doesn't give in to everything..."

Snape snorted.

"Well, do you want to see Number 10, then?" he asked.

"I couldn't give a monkey's about Number 10. Let's go and see if Arthur has anything other than whisky in his cupboard. I hate whisky."

*

Hermione and Severus had spent a pleasant evening in her flat on the Wednesday. They analysed the potential disaster looming ahead of them, argued over the best approach to take with Arthur, and discussed the ramifications for the wizarding community if and when Arthur caved. They ate an adequate Chinese take-away meal, lingered over a bottle of chardonnay, and talked about books. He took off his tie; she changed from shoes into a comfortable pair of slippers. They progressed from "Mr Snape" and "Miss Granger" to not calling each other anything at all. When the time came for him to leave, they both said "um" a few times. They shook hands, a little awkwardly.

Hermione, wishing she had had the confidence in her own meagre attractions to rise on tiptoe and lightly brush his cheek with her lips – a clear but unthreatening invitation to more... intimate... intimacies, leaned on the inside of the door she had closed against his parting, running the evening through her mind – the sound of his voice, how he lost some of his reserve as he became absorbed in conversation, the irresistible enigma of his dark eyes. She was overjoyed to find that he had left his tie behind on the sofa. The silk felt wonderful against her skin.

For his part, Severus put the hand she had clasped into his pocket and found himself on the verge of swearing he would never wash it again. He snorted, ridiculing himself for acting like a lovesick schoolboy at his age, but allowed himself the pleasure of dwelling on the memory of her expressive face, the unruly tendrils of hair that escaped from the clip she wore, the freedom of her laughter, and the amazing evidence of her actually seeming to enjoy his company.

None of which was on show in the Ministry archives on Thursday evening. There was a fair amount of surreptitious glancing, and the odd "Aha!" when one of them tracked down some brief mention of the Accords, but they worked more or less in silence, parting in the early hours of the morning after the most negligible of exhausted farewells. He did not know how much she appreciated having someone willing to share the burden of the academic legwork; she was not aware that her oversight in somehow neglecting to return his tie gave him an unaccustomed feeling of optimism.

Yet it felt completely natural to both of them to make a joint raid on Arthur's stash of Muggle drinks and settle in together to await him with a bottle of forty-year-old Armagnac and a game of backgammon.

By unspoken consent, they steered clear of speculation about what was happening elsewhere in London.

*

"How bad is it, then?" demanded Severus from the depths of his armchair when Arthur eventually stumbled through the Floo.

Arthur shoved the backgammon set to one side and sat down heavily on the low table, which creaked. He rubbed his face with both hands.

"Well, it could be worse," he began, looking at the carpet.

"In what way worse, Minister?" asked Hermione neutrally from under the soft, thick blanket Severus had conjured for her when she dozed off.

Arthur winced.

"Erm. Well. He's going to give us some time to get organised, and..."

"How generous," Snape commented.

"...and he's going to start with the richest first, to demonstrate to the whole wizarding population that it's fair and equitable."

"Fair. And equitable," said Hermione. "Ah."

"Just as a matter of interest, Weasley," asked Snape, "you do know who the richest wizard in Britain is – don't you?"

There was a brief pause and then Arthur looked up, horrified.

"You're about to go up against Lucius Malfoy, Weasley. And he's not in a very forgiving mood these days."

Hermione took pity on Arthur.

"Go home. Get some rest. In fact, get a lot of rest this weekend, Arthur. And on Monday, when you come into the office, you are going to listen to me, you are going to pay very close attention, and you are going to do exactly as you're told."

Arthur nodded meekly.

*

But for the ticking of the grandfather clock and the crackle of the fire, the Minister's office was silent. Hermione leaned her head back and drew the blanket more closely about her as she watched the flames through heavy-lidded eyes. Severus stretched out his legs, putting his feet on the table. He leafed through the folder of demands and instructions that Arthur had dropped on the floor.

Eventually, Hermione gave a great sigh and stirred.

"Give that to me. I'd better go and get some sleep myself, as I'm going to have to spend the entire weekend on the internet, trying to get my head round British tax rules."

"Shall I help?"

She smiled at him.

"I think you're going to have your work cut out preparing Mr Malfoy for the worst. I'll do my best to find what loopholes I can, but just in case, let's try and avoid total meltdown."

*